A bubble of laughter escapes me. “You must be joking.” I pull my hand from his grasp and start up the stairs.
“If things work out, we can talk about getting engaged again,” he calls after me.
But I do not answer him.
“It’s Wes, isn’t it?”
I do not look back till I am inside, candle lit and placed in the window. It is then that I peer outside at his solitary form looking up at me, hand lifted in a wave; then he turns away, and I watch his figure retreat into the nighttime gloom, relieved to be out of his orbit.
To think I had believed, even for a moment, that he was about to offer me marriage, not a chance to bed him again and be his mistress who must still work and pay her own rent and can be thrown off without a moment’s notice unless perhaps he decides to make her an honest offer again. What a bargain.
Yet it is most unsettling how drawn to him I was down there in the street. Before, that is, I came to my senses. Certainly, now that I am safe within my rooms, I feel nothing but relief at his departure. But for a few moments, there was that pull, like a bird flying too close to a cat. That I should be taken in for even a moment, despite everything I have heard from Wes and Paula and Anna, despite what I witnessed of Frank’s own conduct myself, and most of all, despite his own confession of guilt, is beyond anything.
Were those Courtney’s feelings down there in the street, or mine? I can see why Courtney would be drawn to him, for she did, after all, share with Frank what should only be shared in marriage. And she did, by all accounts, truly love him. And he, in his own words, would have gone through with the wedding. Not every man would do the same.
Though indeed, he must now consider me damaged goods after all. Else he would not have made such an insulting offer.
For the first time, I am sensible of how brave it was for Courtney to break her engagement. Perhaps her choice would not be a prudent one in my world, but it is certainly a wise one.
Eighteen
I am unpleasantly reminded of the limitations of reading by candlelight, especially when there are but two candles in the house. Thus I am sent earlier to bed than I desire and am up at first light to devour as much as I can of the next Austen novel in my possession, Mansfield Park. This particular volume affords me not only the delights of a new story, but also the chance to learn something about the author herself, for there is a good deal of information about her in the front of the book, including an account of how she accepted an offer of marriage from a very rich man, a friend of the family. Although the marriage would have saved her, her mother, and her sister from poverty, Miss Austen did not love the gentleman and thus refused his offer after all. A courageous act in light of her age and situation, for she was nearly twenty-seven at the time, her prospects were bleak indeed, and her friends surely disappointed. At least Courtney had the approbation of her friends for breaking her engagement.
I wonder if Miss Austen’s path and mine ever crossed in town, or in Bath. Perhaps I might have attended the same assemblies in the Upper Rooms or bought ribbons in the same Bond Street shop. What would I not give to have had the good fortune to meet her! And how I wish I could have had the means to tell her how famous and beloved she would be almost two hundred years after her death.
By the time I leave my bed, the sun is high in the sky, and the heat in the apartment is already at a disagreeable level, even with every window wide open. Were it not for the bars, I would be tempted to thrust my head outside, not that I imagine it would do me any good. Courtney’s native climate is a hot one indeed.
I make my way into the kitchen on bare, blue-nailed feet (which no longer shock me; I think I might even like them a little) and open the refrigerator. Good God. I cover my nose, which is assaulted by a sulfurous odor. It seems the sad-looking head of lettuce has expired in the heat and is now become a rotting corpse.
Horrible. I hold my breath and grab a paper towel with which I remove the slimy thing, then dump it in a paper bag, which I hasten out of the apartment and down the stairs to the large receptacle outside where I saw Paula dispose of her coffee cup. I am not even aware that I have done all this clad only in a long shirt which exposes my legs to the middle of my thigh until I return to my bedchamber and catch sight of myself in the mirror of the open closet. A mere five days in this society, and already I am putting my charms on exhibition for all the world to see.
What would Mary say if she saw me expose myself—literally—in such a manner? Not that she would recognize me. Not that I recognize myself.
Ah, Mary. I do miss you. If you were here, I would make you know that this is me.
Good lord, it is hot in here. A cool shower would be lovely; I cannot even imagine getting dressed without one. I shed the nightshirt and step into bracingly cold water; I could stay in here all day, glorying in the delightful refreshment and the marzipan scent of the body wash. Heavenly.
As I dry this well-formed body with an enormous, fluffy white towel, I am struck by the difference between this body and the number of remarkably thin, almost half-starved-looking ladies in the bridal magazine I perused the other day. All of the women were of a style of beauty that is quite different from these rounded arms and legs and the gentle swell of this belly. This body is not fat, but it is by no means like the women in those pictures, who are thinner than even the slim body I left behind, with its small breasts and columnlike form. My mother’s favorite dressmaker always said that I had the perfect figure for the high waists which are all the fashion, but I always longed for more womanly proportions.
In this future world, however, it seems that the more starved a woman looks to be, the more her collarbones and elbows protrude through her skin, the prettier she must be.
No wonder Anna referred to Courtney’s litany of complaints about her personal size. Poor Courtney; were she in my time she would be considered an ideal of beauty by many a man and woman. I, however shall make up for that neglect by showering praise every day upon this beautiful form which I have inherited.
As I rifle through my clothes for something suitable to wear, my stomach rumbles. Something I imagine women who would not otherwise go hungry voluntarily endure, as there was a great deal of talk in the magazine of the methods used to achieve the desired starved look, which, of course, involves actual starving. That is a practice I shall certainly not adopt, as long as I have money enough for food. I have had nothing at all to eat since yesterday afternoon. How blessed I am to have money in my bag that will buy me a meal at one of the restaurants along the road, and some money left in the bank, but I am no closer to having the smallest notion of what I shall do when that runs out than I was yesterday. I cannot think of such things now; I must dress and buy food. And a supply of candles.
I find a long, flowing skirt in the closet and top it off with a sleeveless white bodice. It is, after all, abominably hot, as Mary would say, and it’s not as if every woman out there isn’t baring both arms and legs. I have to laugh, for I believe my little blunder of running outside before in only a nightshirt has relaxed my heretofore strict notions of proper attire.
I am about to walk out of the apartment when the phone, which I’ve forgotten in my haste and left sitting atop the bookcase, explodes with the joyous music from Pride and Prejudice.
“Mom,” it says on the screen. “Answer. Ignore.”
My stomach tightens at the thought of speaking to this unknown person who has been leaving me increasingly angry messages. Nevertheless, she is supposed to be my mother, no matter how unknown she is to me, and thus it would be unfilial to refuse her call.
Oh, dear.
“Hello?”
“Courtney—thank God. First I don’t hear from you for two weeks. Then I call your number and it’s disconnected. What the hell’s going on there?”
Perhaps answering the phone was not the most prudent idea after all.
“Well? Are you all right?”
“Perfectly—Mother.”
“Since when do you call me Mother
?” Her voice is deep and has a rapidity of expression quite unlike that of my own mother, whose calm clear tones and careful enunciation can be quite deceptive.
“Ma-ma?” I venture.
“Have you been drinking?”
“I hardly think—”
“What happened to ‘Mom’?”
“Forgive me—Mom. Of course.” Stupid, stupid. It was right there on the phone. And in her messages.
“Just what are you up to, Courtney?”
“I was only going to walk to Sunset Boulevard and buy something to eat.”
“You’re not at work? Did you lose your job? Is that why your phone’s disconnected? Oh my God, Courtney.”
I summon as much calm and command into my voice as possible. “I left my job. It was the right thing to do.” Despite my efforts, I am trembling by the end of this little speech. Clearly, Courtney’s mother has the power to unsettle me as much as my own does.
“Without lining up another job first? Are you out of your mind?” She drops her voice to a whisper. “How much do you need?”
“Where are you?” I realize I have dropped my voice as well.
Still whispering, she says, “I don’t want Don to know I’m sending you money.”
Don? She cannot be talking of my father.
“Not that it’s any of his business,” she says, “but you know how it is.”
I do?
“His kids are like vultures, and I don’t want him to think—”
“That I’m picking at your carcass?” I cannot believe that just came out of my mouth. And who is Don anyway?
“That’s disgusting,” she says. “And unfair. Don’s been very good to me. And you, I might add. It’s not his fault your own father forgot he had a family. But you’ll never give him a break, will you?”
Oh, my. What sort of family is this? Courtney’s father—my father—abandoned his wife and child? And is her mother married to Don? Or is she—?
“I’m sorry, Courtney. I shouldn’t have brought up your father.”
“No. It is I who should apologize.”
“Let’s just forget it, okay? You know I’m not made of money, but you’re my daughter, and if a mother can’t help her own daughter, then what kind of mother is she?”
“Please do not trouble yourself. I’m certain I will find a new job very soon.”
“In this economy? You should listen to me and forget about the movie business. Assistant. That’s a make-nothing, go-nowhere job if there ever was one. I know, I know, you have friends who moved up. Well, good for them. I’m tired of seeing my daughter treated like dirt. Assistant. It was all well and good when they changed my title from secretary to executive assistant back when that first became fashionable, but that didn’t mean I got to stop fetching the coffee, and it didn’t mean I was ever getting my boss’s job. Of course when you work in a law firm, that’s not an issue, but at least it paid well. Why didn’t you listen to me and get an MBA instead of a degree in English, of all things?”
I, a degree?
“You could have gone to law school. And now it’s too late; you have to start thinking about having kids—Oh, boy. I really stuck my foot in it, sweetie. I’m so sorry. I know you’re devastated. God. I’m just so upset that you’re out of work on top of everything else.”
“I’m—okay—Mom. Truly.”
I have taken a degree. I. A woman. Oh how I longed to be like my brother and go to Cambridge. I would treasure the opportunity for learning, whereas he saw it only as a means of being free from the restraints of home.
“Courtney! Are you listening to me? When have you ever quit a job without having another lined up? That’s it. I’m coming out there.”
“No!” I know not whence that came, but I do know I must prevent her coming at all costs. I force some calm into my tone. “Truly. I am perfectly okay. I assure you.”
“I can’t keep sending you money forever, you know. Truth is, I’m about tapped out. I know I said I’d never mention it, but that $2,000 in deposits I laid out for your wedding is money I’ll never see again. You need to find a job. Fast. Which is why you should let me help you. Give me two weeks in L.A. scouring the want ads and reworking your résumé and I promise you’ll have results.”
Despite the heat in the apartment, my bones chill with fear. “But the expense of traveling, would it not be—”
“Don has plenty of miles; flying won’t cost a thing.”
“Miles.” I have no idea what she’s talking about, especially the part about flying, and I dare not inquire. I have only a terrifying vision of this strange woman who claims to be my mother sprouting wings and then tapping on my windowpane.
“And of course I’ll stay with you.”
No. This cannot be happening. Shall I tell her about Wes’s offer, or would doing so seal my fate?
“Mom. There is no need for that. I assure you that I will have a new job within a week.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I have a plan.” Of course I have no such thing. “And please, Mom, do not send me money.”
“Are you sure?”
Of course I’m not sure. I have not even money to pay the electric and telephone bills. But I know that I cannot trade my independence for pecuniary assistance.
“All I ask is one week, and if I am not employed by then, I will do whatever you wish.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” She pauses. “All right, then. One week.”
Thank heaven. I feel as if I have been holding my breath. “And Mom? I’m touched by your generosity. Truly.”
And I am. Despite my terror at having her appear at my door. Or window.
“Don’t disappear again, Courtney. I love you, you know.”
Suddenly, my throat is tight with unshed tears which blur my eyes. It is all I can do to choke out “Thank you.” And with that I end the call, vastly relieved. And just as guilty as I feel after every conversation I have ever had with my own mother about the grim state of my future. If only she could see how that future turned out.
If I do not get out of here, I shall end up on the floor having hysterical giggles. I grab my bag and hurry out of the door.
Nineteen
The glare of the sun is blinding, the heat a solid wall. I rummage inside the bag, hoping I possess a pair of dark spectacles like the ones I have seen Anna and Paula wear, and which I now see on almost every driver in the street. My fingers close around a pouch which contains a pair of dark spectacles—sunglasses, that is what they are called. Lately, it is as if a vast internal lexicon has opened up in my brain, providing to me names of things I never knew of before.
I put on the sunglasses. Ah, yes. The bright world is now pleasantly so. When I reach Acme Taqueria I marshal my courage, for in my world it would be unheard of for a respectable woman to enter an eating house alone. Indeed, it would be unusual to see a genteel woman, accompanied or not, in such a place. But this is not my world, and few if any of those rules apply.
I stand before the door of the restaurant, longing for the coolness I know awaits me inside yet unable to move myself out of the heat. I survey the several configurations of diners at the various tables. Women. Men. Women and men together. A lone man. But not a lone woman.
But it cannot be wrong for me to dine here alone, for did I not say to Courtney’s—my—mother that I was about to venture out for food? She did not even inquire if I was accompanied, let alone by whom. She cared only about employment and money matters.
Then why are there no unescorted females within?
I am about to turn round and go home, despite the grumblings of my stomach, when a familiar voice calls out.
“Don’t go in. Come out with me instead,” it says.
I turn towards the voice. It is Deepa, alone in a car. “Get in, girl. It’s bloody hot out there.”
I was never so relieved to see anyone as I am to see Deepa’s smiling countenance, her perfect teeth bright white against her lovely brown skin, and as s
oon as I’m settled into the cushiony, cream-colored seats in her car, I know I am safe.
“I can’t believe I didn’t get your number the other night,” says Deepa. “So I stopped by your place, just like an old-fashioned Jane Austen morning call”—she turns momentarily towards me, her eyes sparkling mischievously—“but madam was not at home. Lucky for me running into you on Sunset.”
I smile at her. “Lucky for me as well.”
“So,” she says, “shall I assume your hesitant manner in front of the restaurant indicates you’re not as starved as I am?”
“Not at all. I’m famished.”
“Excellent. Can you wait forty-five minutes for a meal? I’ve got this wild idea to drive out to the beach, where it’s got to be at least fifteen degrees cooler than this inferno, but it didn’t sound like much fun doing it on my own.”
“The beach. That would be lovely.”
I haven’t been to the seaside since Brighton, and that was four years ago.
“My treat,” she says.
“But I—”
“No, I insist. This is my adventure, and I’m happy for the company.”
She cannot possibly know how straitened my circumstances are; no, this is not the impulse of pity. It is an act of real friendship. She has sought my company, and not merely for a fifteen-minute formal morning call, but for a journey to the seaside. I shall accept her generosity and repay it when I can.
We are on the road not ten minutes when I catch sight of something that nearly makes me gasp aloud—a bona fide airborne machine with wings like a bird, high up in the sky, cutting through the heavens like an arrow.
Did Deepa see it as well? She does not look as if she has noticed anything extraordinary. Could it be that in this world, a flying wonder in the sky is as commonplace as a carriage was in mine? What a miraculous creation! Somehow I manage to tear my eyes from the sky and respond to Deepa’s kindly asking me how I’ve been since that night in the club.
By the time we leave the freeway—another new word I have learnt—and turn down a street, at the end of which beckons a twinkling blue sea, I have seen two more flying machines. And I don’t quite know how it happened, but I have also ended up telling her about the loss of my job, the refusal of my mother’s offer of money, and the threat of a visit from her (and it was then that I realized the airborne machines must be what she had in mind when she talked of flying).
Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict Page 17